Transformation – The Very Beginning

“Just as a snake sheds its skin, we must shed our past – over and over again.” Buddha

Everything starts somewhere. As obvious a statement as that is, it is true. All life begins
somewhere, all projects have a start, and all journeys have a beginning. The standard
Lao-Tzu quotation for such a time is “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single
step”.

What motivates people to transform to the next level of their existence? Is it an

“unremarkable” day that becomes a turning point? Is it a sign (either visual or
metaphysical) that is seen at just the right second? Is it a reading from a psychic
proclaiming a future vision? Is it a moment in time that is exquisite in its simplicity but
clear in its messaging?

Whatever the motivation, its manifestation can create great change and empowerment, if
allowed. For myself, I have had many a motivational moment, but I didn’t always allow
them to be accepted, and therefore, no change or manifestation occurred - just continued
status quo. Then (because we are lucky and blessed) along comes a moment that does
take hold and sticks, and transformation truly begins as it is allowed to begin.

In one of my “accepted” transformative times, there was the pivotal moment when I
finally quit smoking. I began smoking at age 13, but didn’t really start in earnest till I was
about 16 or so. I had quit hundreds of times, but it never stuck. Truth be told, I deep
down never really wanted to change and transform from a smoker to a non-smoker. It
was a part of me and my identity as a badass chick – the naughty high school athlete who
puffed between tennis matches, the college student smoking while pulling all-nighters,
the stressed business person puffing away while crafting presentations, or inhaling half a
pack before a long flight to London after you could no longer smoke on the airlines. I
loved to smoke, and I really loved to make excuses for why I couldn’t quit. I had
significant motivation to lose this habit as I was a raging asthmatic which required a lot
of drugs to allow me to breath. Many times I was in an ER in the middle of the night
gasping for any air that I could get waiting for the lifesaving epinephrine to course
through my veins.

This first major transformation began on Christmas Day 1997. My father-in-law had
passed away in late August that year of bladder cancer linked to smoking. I was taking
about 1,200 milligrams of Theophylline daily to breathe, as well using a rescue inhaler.
The side effects of Theophylline are not pleasant and they were ever present as were my
Salem Light 100’s. I had (still do unfortunately) frequent and difficult migraines, and my
mother would almost on a daily basis recount (read nag) to me that if I quit smoking, my
migraines would go away (they didn’t but at least I ruled some cause out).
I had a bad migraine when I woke up on Christmas Day, 1997. It persisted and got worse
effectively ruining my enjoyment of that Christmas. Later in the day, our best friends
came to visit so we could open gifts with their children. I was thoroughly miserable, and
barely able to hold my head up. I couldn’t eat or smoke due to the headache and was
vomiting with some regularity. As they were leaving, we walked them out to their car,
and I lite up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. It felt good as my nicotine levels were low
from a day of no smoking. Drawing in another breath, my head just pounded and I threw
the cigarette into the street and ground it out with my shoe.

I had no idea at the time that my transformation to a recovering smoker had begun, but in
that moment, a change was made. The next day, I still felt awful and had to run errands
in preparation for a trip to Beijing. I still wasn’t smoking, and was I ever pissed about it.
Crabby, shaky – I just didn’t smoke because I still just couldn’t without intensifying the
pain in my head. The next day, I packed two cartons of cigarettes in my luggage and we
set off for the airport. First flight was from Minneapolis to Detroit. No big deal – but
soon I started to get very edgy and anxious. The next flight was a 14 hour nonstop from
Detroit to Beijing with no prospect of smoking in sight.

This was hell and I was a wild thing. I felt like crawling the walls. I was pacing the the
narrow aisles of the plane, eating whatever and whenever anything was served. Crabby
doesn’t come close to describe how I was feeling and bitchy wasn’t adequate to describe
how I was acting. My skin was inflamed and my mind racing to when I could get a “fix”.
That was easily the most wretched flight of my life to date. My husband should be
sainted for dealing with me going through serious withdrawal on that plane.

As soon as we landed, I wanted to smoke. With his gentle encouragement and some
hidden willpower, I kept waiting “5 minutes” and then the urge would pass. This was no
easy feat as it appeared to me that everyone in Beijing was a smoker. There were lighters
and cigarettes everywhere. I was insane with desire and instead of enjoying the sites of
the Forbidden City; I wanted to smoke the Forbidden Cigarette.

A day or so later, we took a break from sightseeing, and my husband wanted to have a
rest in our room. I told him I was going downstairs to smoke. He was disappointed but
said he understood. Leaving the room, I grabbed my cigs (and a healthy package of guilt)
and went to the hotel bar. I ordered a drink and pulled one out from the pack and laid it
down next to my lighter. The drink arrived and I took a sip and the automatic response
was to pick up the cigarette. By this time, I was about five days into freedom, but I just
wanted to return to the nicotine prison where I was safe and comfortable and knew how
to exist. It was the Salem Light 100 Stockholm Syndrome where I knew my captors and
we were in a sense friends.
I stared at the cigarette for what seemed like an hour. I had means and motive; I had
wanted this for five days. Why didn’t I execute? More staring, more fidgeting ensued.
And then – the transformational moment hit again. It welled up inside me, a knowing and
a confidence that changed me forever. I literally said out loud “Not this time. You are
not going to beat me this time.” I’m sure the bar patrons thought I was Fēngkuáng de
(“Crazy” in Mandarin).

With that loud statement of declaration and intent – it was over. My exquisite
relationship with tar and nicotine was concluded. A breakdown and a breakthrough – all
of which led to a cocooning period (again, bless my husband, family and friends for
getting through that with me – yuck!), and the eventual emergence from the chrysalis to a
non-smoking butterfly.

I had no intention of stopping when I did, but somehow transformation found me when I
needed it. I am proud of being an ex-smoker since December 25th, 1997. Not one puff
has passed into my lungs since then. My willpower in those days was one of the greatest
gifts I have ever received, and despite the painful journey (can I tell you what got
coughed up in the first month? I wondered if Jimmy Hoffa was in my lungs at one
point), the destination is incredible. As another blessing, I have been asthma drug free
for about 12 years, and now only have the occasional attack that is controlled with a
rescue inhaler.

Note to Self - Transformation comes to you when you need it the most – even if you
don’t know it when it happens.

So, what does this have to do with weight loss and endurance events, or the price of tea in
China? Well – I learned how to stop being addicted to cigarettes. I had a foundation on
which to build my health and well-being – despite the fact that I didn’t know that at the
time.

Transformation 2001

This next major phase of my transformation began unknowingly in 2001. It was due to a
combination of several major life change events. A series of moments and events that as
individuals may be critical but rather unremarkable. However, when strung together,
they have proven to be a force with which to be reckoned.

My joyful journey began with pain and a diagnosis and as the doctor put it, not a “death
sentence” – even though at that moment, it sure did feel that way…
 Mid May 2001

On May 15th, 2001, I was laid off from a very stressful but very interesting job. It was
heartbreaking as I had been told that my team would be “ok” in the face of a workforce
reduction, and it was a blatant lie. Over the past several months, I had gone from
overweight to extremely obese, and seeming to be gaining more weight by the day. More
on that later…but needless to say, I was huge.

About a week after the layoff, I started to notice an incredible soreness to my muscles,
and a fair amount of difficulty in walking. Not only that but my skin was sensitive to
touch and pain radiated from all parts of me. I chalked it up to some passing “thing” –
and away I flew to Washington, D.C. for a job interview. On the flight back, I noticed
that both my ankles were incredibly swollen. Getting out of the seat on the plane, I was
stiff and sore, and generally uncomfortable. Driving back home, both my husband and I
passed it off to eating a salt heavy diet and the swelling associated with flying.
Unfortunately, we were both incorrect.

Personal Journal Entry – May 20th, 2001

The weight must be causing the pain in my knees and hips. Stretching doesn’t have any
effect. No more food, I need to detox. Food is overwhelming me. Where is the moment
that I am waiting for to turn the tide? Or is it like smoking – it will just happen?
Must stop
I am unacceptable
Start Again, You Can
Get up, get back on your feet.

The aching, swelling, and persistent pain continued. As each day passed, it became
increasingly difficult to move around. Mornings were spotty – some good, some not so
good. What was certain though was as the day went on; I would slow down and not be
able to get out of a chair without having to pause and use my arms to lift myself up.
Movement became stiffer, and my knees were barely moving. The pain associated with
my skin intensified as well, and I could hardly stand any kind of touch.

In late May, my husband and I went on a “planned before the layoff” vacation to Sonoma
and the Lake Tahoe area. We had a great time despite my aches and pains, but while in
Tahoe, my body seemed to deteriorate further. We thought it might be altitude related,
but again, we were wrong. At one point, we were driving around the lake and were near
Emerald Island. It was there that my husband photographed me in what is now known as
the official “before” picture. I looked and felt incredibly uncomfortable. My head looks
so small attached to my overstuffed body. I remember sitting on that ledge feeling so
very full – and not in a good way. And yet – the eating and the stuffing continued.
Heaven forbid I should acknowledge my emotions and stop trying to suppress them into
oblivion with food. Now, I had a new and easy way to complain about reasons to eat –
unidentified pain. So – why not have that cheesecake? And how about some more onion
rings? It sure felt good going down the hatch for that brief moment in time. Five
minutes later, the pain was still there, the issues still there, my layoff still there, and the
empty calories were now firmly attached to my belly and parts south. For being such a
logical person – my behavior made no sense at all – but it continued because I didn’t
want to deal with the reality of my obesity or whatever force was causing me pain and to
not be able to move.

Back home - one day as I struggled to get out of bed, it dawned on me that I had felt this
way before. Shortly after my husband’s father passed away in late August of 1997, we
attended a conference in Dallas and went on to Santa Fe. The conference was in October,
and while there – we stayed at the venerable Adolphus Hotel in downtown Dallas. I
recall a lovely oversized room, decorated in shades of pale yellow. The bedroom was a
short hallway away from the bath. Waking in the middle of the night, I needed to take
that walk, and noted the pain running down my legs and into my knees and ankles. It
took me some time to get steady and journey down that hallway, and I recall while trying
to “be seated”, that the pain intensified when I bent my knees. Each morning, the pain
was better, and by the later parts of the evening, it was like a full blown firestorm. It got
worse in Santa Fe, and neither of us could sort out what was happening. Shortly after
returning home, the pain and swelling subsided, and it was as if it had never happened. I
never gave it another thought now.

So that day in late May 2001, we began to correlate the pain I was currently experiencing
with that which I had experienced in October of 1997. There was a definite emotional
connection between these episodes. We discussed at length the physiological similarities
between the incidences, and then the emotional similarities. Both events produced
emotional stress – something I was not very good at handling. Both events caused a
“flare up” a short time after an emotionally traumatic event occurred. Very interesting…
so now what?

Things did not improve, rather they continued to decline. The pain became worse, the
swelling more severe, and movement almost impossible. I finally made an appointment
with my internal medicine practitioner. He called for tests and blood work including a
test for a rheumatoid factor. I didn’t understand what that was or why it was important to
check, but knew in time the results would be revealed. I was anxious for the results, and
gave my doctor my cell phone number. He promised a call when the tests were complete.

June 5th, 2001

My husband, my mother-in-law and myself were driving to the hospital to welcome our
first niece, daughter of my sister-in-law. Brianna was born on June 4th, 2001, and we
were over the moon and excited to go visit the little “BB” as our early nickname for her
was assigned. My pain and swelling had not subsided, and had actually grown worse –
climbing in intensity as the day progressed.

We were still en route when at approximately 5:00 pm – my cell phone rang. It was my
doctor calling. I answered the phone and heard the following (this is verbatim as best as I
can remember)
Mrs. Tyler? Dr. X here. Mrs. Tyler, we have received your blood work back and you
have an elevated rheumatoid factor. This means you have rheumatoid arthritis. Now –
this isn’t a death sentence, but you need to make an appointment with a rheumatologist. I
can prescribe steroids for the swelling and something for the pain.

What?

I heard the words – but they were not real. I had what? No….not me….
I vaguely remember hearing myself say that I wanted neither steroids nor painkillers, and
that I would make a follow up appointment. Hanging up – my husband could see that I
was visibly upset, and of course, wanted to know the outcome. I told him what was said
to me, and we just stared out the front car window – not knowing what to say. Silently,
we agreed to not discuss it until we were home in our private space. All I could hear in
my mind was

What? This can’t be real…

Even though there was a lingering shock hanging over me – I was thrilled to greet
Brianna for the first time. I felt overjoyed and tremendously sad at the same time. As I
held her in my arms, rather than enjoying that moment – my mind took me to a time and
place when I perceived that I wouldn’t be able to do that. There is a picture of me
holding her where you can almost see my chin quivering from a tear. That picture
reflected both my wonder at the little miracle I was holding and the fact that I had just
gotten a devastating diagnosis. The call certainly cast a black cloud over the visit. I kept
trying to put it out of my mind, but the words “it isn’t a death sentence” kept resonating
over and over again.

Once at home with just the two of us, I cried. I didn’t know what I was even crying
about, but I was afraid. Afraid of the RA (rheumatoid arthritis), afraid that I didn’t even
know what it really was, afraid of the stories I had heard and the people I had seen that
suffered from it, afraid that the excruciating pain that I had in my legs and knees would
never stop, and that I would be imprisoned by that pain for the rest of my life.

I finally stopped crying (it’s not really my style) and then promptly decided it really
couldn’t be true, and that the diagnosis was wrong (which as it turns out several years
later – it was), the blood work was wrong, and that it would all be better tomorrow after a
good night’s sleep. And with that, I was done and went to sleep.

June 6th, 2001

Waking up the next morning – it wasn’t all better as I had presumed the night before. I
still hurt and could barely get out of bed. I had secretly hoped that like the television
show “Dallas” when Bobby Ewing had died, it had all been a dream and he was really
alive. Damnit – I thought. Now I need to go figure this out, because this was my reality.
It was like any other new challenge – hitch up those big girl panties (literally), stop
crying, and go sort it out.

I got up, and headed for Starbuck’s to enjoy a latte and start piecing together what was
happening with my body. Getting in the car and driving seemed to take an Act of
Congress. After arriving at the store, a minor coincidence occurred. (By the way – I
don’t believe in coincidences, as they are really God’s way of remaining anonymous.)
My doctor was in there enjoying his coffee as well. We made eye contact, and then he
came over to my table. He again kindly offered prescriptions for the same steroids and
pain killers I had summarily dismissed the day before. After I said no thank you yet
again – he asked if I was sure, and I replied that I was. Having been prescribed
Prednisone as an extremely asthmatic teenager, I knew that it and my body didn’t get
along very well, and I was loath to suffer those side effects, despite my painful
movements. The doctor wished me a good day as he departed. I remained, sipping my
latte made with half and half (about a billion calories) and thinking. I then called the
recommended rheumatologist and was told that the first available appointment was in the
middle of August. I took what was available and noted it on my calendar.

What next? Well – I couldn’t just sit around and rot – or could I? I struggled to the car
and drove home and cried some more. Cried for any number of reasons, and quite
frankly, started a personal pity party that lasted for too long a time. For days, I moped
around, whining, not moving, sitting, taking handfuls of aspirin, bathing in Epsom salt,
complaining to my husband, my family and anyone else who would listen about how
much it hurt. IT DID HURT! It was pain 24/7 and I couldn’t get away from it.

Mid June 2001

How many times was I tempted to call back and get some of that painkiller “stuff”?
Knowing my somewhat addictive personality – I had concerns that I would venture down
that highway and never come back. Not one to accept defeat – (never have been any
good at that, and don’t suspect I ever will be), I was having a hard time seeing my way
out of this situation. One of my motto’s is a quote from Captain Kirk (I am such a geek) –
“I don’t believe in the no win scenario” – henceforth known as IDBITNWS. But in the
face of this issue – I wondered if I had indeed lost, and became even more involved in my
solo pity party. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that all my extra pounds weren’t helping the
pain or the swelling. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that sitting and lying around wasn’t
doing me as much good as exercise would. I had my mind set to wallow, and wallow I
did.

One day, I paid a visit to the bookstore and found a book about “eating one’s way to
better health”. The booked talked about how Omega 3, and other more healthy choices
could make a difference in people with RA and fibromyalgia. Being that salmon is a
great source of Omega 3, I started to eat it, and a lot of it! I was still enormous, weighing
in at 248 pounds. No wonder my joints were unhappy! On top of the “disease”, the
weigh was compounding the issues. I wasn’t moving - I was eating. Eating to ease the
pain, the diagnosis, the anger I felt from losing my job, the anger I felt from being so
obese. Salmon and anything else that wasn’t nailed down were my comfort, solace, and
constant companions. The book never mentioned Hostess Ho Ho’s as a source of
Omega 3, but they sure tasted good while doing research.

June 16th, 2001

Grandma’s Marathon

Our friend Tim was participating in Grandma’s Marathon in Duluth, Minnesota. My

husband and I made the drive and checked into our weekend hotel. After dinner, I
wished Tim the very best for the morning, and we retired to our room. I could barely
stand by that time, and I remember falling into bed and praying for a fast sleep to take
over.

Saturday morning, June 16th, 2001 at about 4:00 a.m. – I awoke to the most horrific pain I
had yet to experience in my entire life. Crying endlessly, I got in a hot bath to sooth my
joints till the next dose of aspirin kicked in. The pain was all encompassing, raging
through my hips, knees and ankles. “Please, make it go away” I screamed like a child
afraid of a spider. My husband was so unhappy that he couldn’t do a thing for me. I
remember him holding me in the bath, holding ice to my knees, rocking me back and
forth, doing all he could to sooth the savage beastly pain that was raging through my
joints.

In the painful fog that was that morning – I kept trying to understand why it was getting
worse. I tried to reflect on my experiences in Dallas, and tried to piece together a
sequence of events that was leading to this moment, and I couldn’t. This intensive pain
flare up seemed to go on forever. Back in the bathtub – I did all I could to calm my mind
and mitigate the pain. To regain some semblance of control, I ran my familiar
migraine/asthma attack “checklist” in my head to get ahead of the pain and the emotions
and return to a world of logic and control:

1. Breathe – you must first survive

2. Keep breathing – do whatever you need to ensure your survival
3. Calm the mind – and realize that at some point – this will pass
4. Remind myself that getting uptight doesn’t help
5. Pray for peace and lessening of the pain
6. Breathe again
7. Continue to pray
8. Continue to breath
9. Wait
10. Control your mind and the body will follow

About 45 minutes later, the “attack” mellowed out, and I was able to return to bed and
fall blessedly into a physically drained sleep for a few hours.
Later that morning, we were standing at the Finish Line of Grandma’s Marathon. What a
glorious place! The energy is marvelous, and watching people cross with arms
outstretched was just great. Our friend Tim finished with a time of 4:07 – a huge and
wonderful accomplishment. As we were waiting to see him finish, a woman walked by
wearing a shirt that quoted “Pain is temporary, Pride is forever.” I had a high hope that
was a true statement – and only years later did I fully understand the meaning of that
phrase. I limped about the finish line area and in a particularly low moment – I thought
to myself that because of my body and its issues, I would never ever know what it felt
like to finish a marathon. I could never dare to think or dream that what I witnessed
today could become a reality for me. And then, I thought this was ridiculous. Up to that
moment, I never considered participating in a marathon, a half marathon or any other
event where people threw up at the conclusion and consumed something called “Gu”
Suddenly though, the fact that I thought I couldn’t do the distance due to my “condition”
made me want to all the more.

Returning to our hotel room – I stared out at Lake Superior, and cried again. I thought
about the song, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” and redid the words in my mind
to be the Wreck of the Carol Fitzgerald. I cried so hard I shook like a leaf, this time for
what I thought I couldn’t do.

I had never wanted to complete a marathon – why did this bother me so much? I
weighed 248 pounds and could hardly move – why did I even think that was something
that would be of interest to me? Up until now, my idea of a marathon was a bunch of
Star Trek movies and pizza, and I was perfectly fine with that, thank you very much. But
– somewhere, I knew that the perceived limitation was causing this deep emotional
reaction to the pain, and I also knew at that moment that I needed to stop feeling sorry for
myself, fall back, and regroup.

Later that evening, I was working my way down the hotel hallway to the hotel’s
whirlpool, my husband taking my elbow to help me navigate. People walking the other
way were congratulating me on completing the marathon – assuming that my difficulty
walking was a result of running 26.2 miles. “Oh no – I didn’t finish” I said. I wanted no
credit for something I didn’t do. My husband laughed and tried to help me see the humor
in the situation – but at that moment – I couldn’t. All I knew is that because of my
condition and diagnosis – a dream that I never had to begin with appeared to be over, and
I would be denied the joy of ever crossing a marathon finish line. Or so I thought…

June 18th, 2001

The Phone Call That Changed My Life

Back home on Monday, I was rifling through the “goodie bag” that was provided at the
marathon. As I was sorting through the various race and organization brochures, I found
one for the American Diabetes Association (ADA). Since five members of my family
either had or have diabetes, it got my attention. As I read through the flyer, the ADA was
seeking individuals to participate in either a half or a full marathon and to raise money to
help cure diabetes. What a marvelous concept! Not only did it help fund cures for
diabetes, but it was a great personal goal for people to achieve.

The more I looked over the flyer, the more I felt called to participate. I didn’t really
know how I could, but I just knew that I did. It seemed given my physical condition that
a half marathon was the best choice at the time.

Me? A half marathon?

When I was playing tennis in junior high, high school and college – I avoided any and all
running or endurance training at all costs. In fact, in junior high when we had to run two
miles for training, I would short cut through a field and then sit and smoke until the rest
of the team appeared. The concept of distance event was certainly foreign and bordering
on the absurd. And to top it all off – who in their right mind would want to walk or run a
half or a full marathon. Didn’t the first Greek marathoner Pheidippides die after bringing
word to Athens that the Greek’s had beaten the Persians? And if he died after a full
marathon, even the half marathon must be fraught with other issues – losing limbs and
the like.

But – there was something about that brochure that spoke to me. I couldn’t shake it and
it consumed my thoughts. That half marathon was calling me, and although I wanted it to
be a wrong number given my aversion to distances, the connection was the right one. It
was a monumental challenge from where I lay (literally) at that moment. It was a chance
to rise above my circumstances, rise above my pity party that was going on (and on and
on and on). Most importantly, it was a chance to help someone else be healthier and have
a better life.

Yes – I realized that I wasn’t even out of bed. Yes – I was obese. Yes – I was writhing
in pain. But, so what….why not make the call? The information on this concept would
be good to know no matter what, right? Fearlessly, I dialed the phone to “just see” what
they had to say.

That evening when my husband got home from work – he sweetly asked how I was doing
and what I had done that day. I told him I read some brochures from the marathon and
made some calls. He acknowledged me as he opened the mail. Then I told him the rest
of my day, and mentioned that I had signed up to do a half marathon on January 6th, 2002.
With that, he put down the mail and said “You did what?” I silently asked myself the
same question again as well. We laughed and sat down to talk about what I had done.

The bottom line for me is that I need a challenge, and I need a risk. At that point in my
life, I also needed a leap of faith. A leap of faith that I would receive the strength and
courage to do what I said I would do – no matter what the circumstances in which I
currently found myself.

Note to Self – Never Ever Count Yourself Out or Give Up.

Nothing Else Matters When You Think You Can.